


“I'm an artist. I paint with words.” “You're a lush. You paint with vomit.”

by lia_bezdomny



Series: Seven Days of Cherik [1]
Category: Real Person Fiction, X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Crack, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, The writing thingy were the person talks to you, stupid sexy James
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4618236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lia_bezdomny/pseuds/lia_bezdomny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James wakes up with a headache and no memory of the previous night. All he is kinda sure about is that this isn't his bedroom and that those are not his leather pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“I'm an artist. I paint with words.” “You're a lush. You paint with vomit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Because I've hit a wall with almost all of my other fics, I wrote this one to distract myself. So pour yourself a Vodka and buckle up. 
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> \- James' POV/Not beta'd at all/and I'm also slightly drunk.  
> \- I know that Craig is sober. Kudos Mr. F.  
> \- The title is taken from "Two and a half men". 
> 
> And as always: I will stop shipping them, if they stop being gay for each other.

“Why is it so fucking bright in here?” I try to open my eyes wider but the mere attempt sends jolts of pain through my head. The giant window, opening into my garden doesn't help.

“The fuck...?” I do not have a giant window in my bedroom and hungover or not, I am pretty certain that I do not have a garden.

“This is not my flat...” “No shit.” I jump and almost fall out of the bed, when I hear the familiar Glaswegian accent. Craig's hand grabs the duvet, as he tries to holster himself onto the bed. He is wearing a kilt, sunglasses and a shirt with Russian writing on it. 

“Oh God...” Is all I can say. Craig just looks at me with a wide grin on his face. 

“Did we...?” “What? No.” At least that. I know Craig's wife and shagging other people's significant others is something I strongly oppose to. I look down at myself.

“Shite.” “Uhu.” I'm wearing a pair of leather pants, or at least partly, because apparently I couldn't get them over my thighs. Now I know for certain, who is responsible for this fuckery: That emaciated Siberian wolf by the name of...

“Alex...” I mutter and Craig tosses me a towel to drape around my waist.

When we walk into the kitchen, I see my trousers, neatly folded on the coffee table. I also see a lot of empty bottles of Scotch, Vodka and Guinness, open take-away boxes and a tattoo machine.

“Oh fuck.” I immediately check myself for a tramp stamp but because my blood levels are still highly laced with alcohol, I chase my own arse like a dog. Of course this is the moment Alex chooses to appear, like a bat out of hell. Which is not so far of, given the fact, that the Russian still wears yesterdays make up, complete with pointy ears, fake fangs and a nasty gash on the throat. Maybe I should add, that Alex trains people to do body make-up. That's how we met, actually, on the set of "Wanted". 

“Don't worry, James. I didn't mark you.” “Huh?!”

“The tattoo machine. I just touched up one of Craig's old tats.” He waves his bandaged arm and I relax a little. It could have happened though. Angelina left the set with one tattoo more and Alex' phone number. At least those were the rumors, according to Konstantin and Thomas. 

“Anyway, good morning, my freaky darlings. I made doughnuts, they are vegan, so you can have one too, Craig.” After years of an uneasy friendship, I still cannot get over that cheerful, yet gravely voice. It's like hearing Aleister Crowley talk about his love for kittens.

“Thanks, Alex.” He says and takes one of the coffee cups from the counter.

“When did you learn to make doughnuts anyway?” “Michael showed me, before he passed out.” _Michael was here?_ _Of course, the Guinness._ Alex would have never been caught dead, well dead-er, drinking that. Something about “Shaming my ancestors”. Patriotism runs deep, in the Russian culture.

“I didn't pass out! I gracefully fell asleep drunk. Big difference.” The Irishman pats over to one of the chairs and sit down next to Alex.

“Fassybear, you are pale as fuck. And that says something, coming from me.” He rolls his eyes.

“Sorry, that my appearance disgusts you, Wulfi.” “Just drink your coffee, you idiot.” The vampire bat runs a hand through Michael's hair and puts a cup in front of him.

What I said about having an uneasy friendship with Alex? Well, that was the reason, right there: Not the strange fascination with blood and gore, or the sick humor. It was _their_ relationship: Nicknames, mocking, downright flirting. Craig gives me a strange look as if he knows what's going on in my head. Maybe he does, I've been known to blurt out anguished declarations of love when I'm pissed. But it is neither Alex' nor Michael's fault. I've never made a move or anything, and even if I did... Michael is almost completely oblivious to the fact that people are interested in him. Sometimes, I think he still sees himself as this little fat kid and not as... Well Michael fucking Fassbender, one of the sexiest men alive. Then he shakes his head at something and I see a massive hickey on his neck, like someone fucking gnawed on it. With fake fangs for example.

 _Fuck my life,_ I think and run for the bathroom.

***

My head is spinning like crazy and the nausea doesn't seem to want to leave my body. Closing my eyes still helps a little, so I do just that.

“James?” _Great, Michael. Just what I need._ I feel a cold towel on my head and another one, cleaning up my face.

“Yes. Still alive and... kicking.” Because I am a apparently a masochist, I open my eyes again and stare at him.

 _Of course he looks perfect, all concerned and caring..._ “So, how long have you and Alex... You know?” I ask, because I cannot help myself.

“Been friends? Couple of years, why?” “No,” I point to his hickey. He touches his neck and laughs at me. “That? You were really out of it yesterday, huh?”

“What?” “That's not from Alex, you idiot. You did that.” “Excuse me?” Is all I can say before my mind shuts off.

The Irishman obviously thinks that I need more information, so he continues.

“You had half a bottle of Scotch...” _Naturally._

“And then you gave Alex shit for wearing fake fangs...” _That also sounds like me. I can be kind of a dick, when I'm drunk._

“So Craig dared you to try a pair on. And you did. All of the sudden you turned into Christopher Lee and attacked my neck.” “Oh fuck... Did I hurt you?” He laughs.

“No. They were made out of rubber and fell out after the second bite. But you kept trying and then you really went for it.” Michael puts on a very fake Eastern European accent.

“I will suck your blood, my lovely maiden. You will be my immortal bride and we will spent eternity together, muhahaha!” “I... I did not.”

I refuse to believe that. Or I would have to move to a foreign country.

“Yes, you did.” _I heard Peru is nice. I could become an Alpaca farmer or something._

“And then you told me, that you loved me.” “Oh...” _Well, fuck._

“I told you, that I love you.” “Yes. Several times and not just yesterday. And you've also told Craig and Alex. And I think at least fifteen people on the set of DoFP.”

“Does damn wrap-parties.” I mutter and feel the heat creeping into my cheeks.

“Why didn't you say something?” Michael looks at me and I hope, his next words are not _because it was too embarrassing_.

“I never believe declarations of love during sex or when someone is drunk.”

“Oh. Okay.” I could just leave it like that, he gave me a perfect exit strategy. _Let's just ignore the whole thing, blame it on the alcohol and so on._ But no, not today. I already made a fool out of myself, so why bother?

“And what is your policy on people who are hungover and awfully humiliated by recent events?” He laughs at that. “Never happened to me, I'm afraid.”

I try to get up, because I don't really want to confess my undying love next to a toilet but gravity is the enemy of the shit-faced man and I get dizzy. Michael catches me by the waist and we both tumble to the floor.

“You don't have to swoon, James. We are not in a Jane Austen novel.” “Yes, thank you for that, Michael. The binge drinking and vomit on my shirt really had me confused there for a moment.”

“Always happy to help. So, go on then.” “Here?” “Yes.”

 _That fucking grin is plastered on his face again._ _I know I'm putting myself out there but he doesn't have to be so fucking smug about it._

“I love you.” _And I swear on everything that is holy, if you say “I know”, I will drown you in this bathtub!_

But he says nothing at all, he just pulls me to his chest and kisses the top of my head.

"Was that so hard?" "Yes. And I really need to know why I wore Alex' leather pants." 

 

The End.

 

 

 


End file.
